


Lovely Creatures

by manic_intent



Series: Omertà [1]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Full spoilers, M/M, More of a Daisy fix-it than anything, Spoilers for John Wick 2, That AU where Santino calls in his marker much earlier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: To John’s surprise, Winston sighed and closed his eyes briefly, his hands clasped over his perfectly pressed trousers. The master of New York’s Continental was an amiable man, at least on the surface, and although the years had cut seams into his face and peppered his hair with silver threads, he was still a man of precision and consequence. One of the few men whose opinions John still valued.“You don’t approve,” John said, when the silence stretched his patience thin. Winston’s elegant study in the Continental was drawn in shades of mahogany and oak and velvet, where books, never read, lined wall shelves with their stitched leather spines. The only books of consequence in the study were kept in the thrice-locked desk, ledgers that tallied lives and deaths. And oaths.“It is not my place to approve or disapprove, Mister Wick,” Winston said.“D’Antonio said he’d only do this for me if I gave him a marker.”





	Lovely Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched John Wick 2… XD;; I think nobody else ships my ship, but I guess I have a thing for smol, hot, and bratty Italian gangsters. That accent. That terrible hair. That suit. That strange disconnect with reality. ♥ This AU takes place at the start of John Wick 1: Santino calls in his marker much earlier. I guess it is a Daisy fix-it more than anything. That puppy was so cute.
> 
>  

Preludio

To John’s surprise, Winston sighed and closed his eyes briefly, his hands clasped over his perfectly pressed trousers. The master of New York’s Continental was an amiable man, at least on the surface, and although the years had cut seams into his face and peppered his hair with silver threads, he was still a man of precision and consequence. One of the few men whose opinions John still valued.

“You don’t approve,” John said, when the silence stretched his patience thin. Winston’s elegant study in the Continental was drawn in shades of mahogany and oak and velvet, where books, never read, lined wall shelves with their stitched leather spines. The only books of consequence in the study were kept in the thrice-locked desk, ledgers that tallied lives and deaths. And oaths. 

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove, Mister Wick,” Winston said. 

“D’Antonio said he’d only do this for me if I gave him a marker.”

“So you’ve said.” 

“I asked Gianna first. She said she couldn’t help me.” 

“So you’ve also said.” Winston eyed John with a paternal sort of disappointment. It wasn’t a look that John was unfamiliar with. 

“You don’t approve.” 

“And will my opinion matter very much at all at this point?” 

“If I do the ‘impossible task’, then I can retire.” It was the only thing that kept John going. An afterlife while he still lived, one he could spend with Helen. He would promise his soul to the Devil itself if he had to. “It’s not impossible. With Santino’s help.” Kill all of Viggo Tarasov’s rivals within a night. With the help of one of the heirs to the Camorra, it wasn’t impossible. “Then I’ll be free.” 

“So you’ve said.” Winston exhaled heavily, and pushed himself to his feet, padding over to his desk. “It’s within your right to promise a marker to anyone you like.” 

“Just say what you want.” 

“It’s not my place to express an opinion about any member of the life,” Winston said, every word clearly chosen carefully, as he took keys from his pockets and began to unlock the second drawer in his desk. “The D’Antonios are an old family, very well respected, within the Camorra and without.” 

“And?”

“I’ve known Gianna and Santino for years.” Winston drew a large ledger out of the drawer, then a palm-sized silver coin, heavily etched. “Julius, however, has known them since they were children.” 

John nodded. That was to be expected. Julius, after all, was Winston’s equivalent in Rome, and Italy was the Camorra’s traditional seat of power. “And?”

“Santino had this little game he liked to play when he was a boy,” Winston said, as he closed the drawer and gathered the ledger and marker into his hands. “He’d pick out someone desperate, someone deeply in debt to the D’Antonio Family. He’d offer to cancel the debt, if they could get to the Continental in Rome within an hour. If they couldn’t, their life was forfeit.” 

“Get to the Continental from where?” 

“It didn’t matter. The game was rigged. It was _always_ rigged. In the end, Julius had a private word with the father.” 

“The marker’s not valid if he doesn’t come good on his favour.” 

Winston raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I have no doubt that he will.” 

“Then I’m giving him a marker.” John held out his hand. 

Another man would have sighed again, given another warning, withheld the marker, perhaps, or predicted disaster. That was not Winston’s way. He opened the ledger, and watched as John spiked his thumb and inked first the steel face within the marker and then the ledger. There was no need to sign. What was mere ink in the life that he led? Gold coins and paper bonds might appear to be what passed for money in the world beneath the world, but everyone knew that the real currency of favours was blood. That was fine by John. Gold or blood, he’d never valued either.

Coda

He had been there for Helen at the end. That had been something, hadn’t it? Helen had taught him joy, and it was fitting that she would also teach him grief. Gods, it hurt.

Obbligato

Helen had known he would be unmoored by her death, of course she had. Hers was the only life John had ever valued. Without her, he drifted. On the bleaker days, not even Daisy or driving around in his Mustang helped. He lay on the floor of the hallway, exhausted by the dregs of his life, watching the beagle puppy snuffle around, eat kibble, and lick his fingers.

John knew Daisy was good for a few hours, after which she’d need a walk, or there’d be another mess in the kitchen. For now, though, he was paralysed. Helen had tackled him to the floor here once, giggling, joyous over something, and John couldn’t remember what it had been. It killed him not to know. He was forgetting her already. What had it been? He remembered her laughing, pretending to scowl. He’d tickled her back. But why? Was there a why? 

The doorbell rang, but John ignored it. He wasn’t expecting company and missionaries made his trigger finger itch. Daisy’s ears perked, and she sped over to the door, barking, before snuffling back to peer soulfully into John’s eyes. Another insistent ring pitched her back to the door, her barking growing louder, then she was back, panting excitedly. It was a game to her. John closed his eyes. Let someone else entertain the dog. 

There was a faint scraping sound, and from miles and miles away, the sound of a door opening. Someone swore in Italian, over the sound of Daisy’s high pitched growls, then rough fingers were pressed against his neck, checking for a pulse. John hissed, batting the hand away, and he rolled onto his back, opening his eyes blearily. Upside down, Santino’s meticulously gelled puff of hair looked as ridiculous as John remembered.

“John. I’m sorry for entering your house without leave, but you weren’t answering the door.” Santino frowned down at him. “Are you well?” 

John glanced past Santino’s fashionable oxblood shoes to the door. Sleek black sedans crowded the driveway, and from beyond the door, Santino’s ever-present right hand woman, Ares, stared unblinkingly at John, her blonde hair cut into a sleek bullet. She folded her arms over her pantsuit, tilting her head in a silent question. John squeezed his eyes shut, let out a shaky breath, and got awkwardly to his feet. 

“Just. Got dizzy for a moment,” John muttered. Years ago, in another life, he’d have readily taken a real wound than admit any sort of weakness to anyone else, let alone one of the Camorra. Now, he didn’t give a fuck. It was surprisingly cathartic. 

Santino caught his elbow, tugging. Skin to skin, the warmth was almost unbearable. John allowed himself to be pulled over to the dining room, where he sat while Santino disappeared, and returned with a glass of water, which he nudged over the table. He also had Daisy in his hands, the beagle puppy squirming and nibbling at fingertips. 

_That_ focused John right out of his daze. Santino noticed: he smiled, though it wasn’t particularly friendly. “Cute dog.” 

“What do you want?” 

Santino set the dog on the glass table, and Daisy skidded around awkwardly as she slid determinedly towards John’s elbow. “You owe me a favour, Mister Wick. Do you remember?” Santino drew the marker from within his jacket, palming it onto the table. 

Ah hell. John rubbed a palm slowly over his face. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I’m retired.” 

“I was sorry to hear about your wife.” Santino said, with elegant insincerity. 

“You want me to kill someone, fine,” John said, too tired for anything but recklessness. “But right now I’m more likely to accidentally shoot myself in the foot.” 

“There’s ways of bringing you back, I think. The old John Wick.” Santino reached across the table, tapping Daisy lightly over the top of her wet nose. “Relax,” he said, chuckling, when John pointedly pulled Daisy away, balancing the puppy on his lap. “She is _very_ cute. What kind of man would I be, to do her harm?” 

“So who is it? Who do you want me to kill?” 

“The marker is a promise of a favour,” Santino said, tapping at the silver face. “But it isn’t a promise of death.” 

John stared at him, puzzled. “So… you _don’t_ want me to kill someone?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“… Stealing?” John hazarded a guess. 

“My father is very ill,” Santino said, a non-sequitur. “Doctors give him two months. Maybe less.” 

“You must be very sad.” John tried not to roll his eyes.

“Of course. He is my father. It will be a blow, his death.”

“I’m sure you’d be crying all the way to the High Table.” The Camorra’s seat at the High Table was currently a D’Antonio seat, after all, and Santino was the only male descendant of his generation. 

“Ah, now you put your finger on the problem.” 

“… You’ve got a secret brother?” 

“No, no.” Santino chuckled, white teeth bared. “If only. No. A friend close to my father has told me something interesting. It appears that my father intends to… modernise. Some of the Camorra families, the smaller ones, are already run by women.” 

“Because the men are in jail and the women are smarter.” 

Santino scowled. “That may be so.” 

“He wants to give his seat to Gianna?” 

“She’s been cunning. Ingratiated herself to Father bit by bit over the years. I’m beginning to think that he sees her as his heir.” Santino clenched his fists. 

“I still don’t see how I can help you.” 

“You’re in all his favourite stories.” Santino tapped his fingertips lightly on the glass. “Did you know that? John Wick, the bogeyman. Lethal even with just a pencil. He was disappointed that you chose to work for the Russian mafia.” 

“Tarasov wasn’t so bad.” John said, shifting. Daisy was beginning to squirm with impatience. “Get to the point.” 

“I want you to help him tell one last story,” Santino said, with a tight smile. “Have him name me his heir to his seat at the High Table. I don’t particularly care how you do it.” 

“I’m not that good at persuading people to do things.”

“Aren’t you? You managed to get Viggo Tarasov to grant you your freedom.” Santino tapped at the marker again. “With my help, mind you.” 

Were he even fractionally less tired of the world, John would have refused. Politely. Pushed the marker back towards Santino and begged off, maybe grovelled, if he had to. John stared dully at his untouched cup of water, and felt defeated by gravity. He had walked so long with death that it infected everything that he touched. Helen. This new life. He’d worked his damnedest for a little peace, only to find that it was instead an illusion: it had been an intermission instead, a momentary stillness before inevitability had reasserted itself. The pendulum, swinging backwards. 

“Fine.” John said, weary. “I’ll try. If Massimo D’Antonio names you his heir, you’ll count the marker paid?” 

“Yes.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then you wouldn’t have fulfilled the favour I asked for, would you? I want to have my father’s seat.” Santino leaned across the table, his lip curled into a silent snarl. “One way or the other.”

Intermezzo

“She is very cute,” Santino said again, as the cars pulled away from John’s house. He was holding Daisy up, the dog panting with excitement, nose to nose. “What’s her name?”

“Daisy.” John was slumped against his side of the car, still rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t bothered digging up his gear, or even packing clothes, though he _had_ brought a bag of Daisy’s things as an afterthought.

“Nice to meet you, Daisy,” Santino said in Italian, and Daisy wriggled onto her back on his lap, squeaking in pleasure as he rubbed her tummy, white and honey fur going everywhere. John stared, blinking owlishly, but he was ignored. Ares was driving, and she offered him a tiny smirk when he met her eyes briefly through the rearview window. 

“Where are we going?” John asked, when Daisy went to sleep, overstimulated. 

“Why, to Rome.” Santino sounded surprised that he’d asked. “You’re meant to talk to my father, remember?”

“Most families are kinda content with a phone call, or a therapist or something if they need help communicating.” 

Santino smiled. “Most families don’t have fathers who break their children’s thumbs, just to see how long they take to cry out.” 

“And did you?”

“Did I what?” 

“Cry,” John said, drawing out the word. Santino’s smile vanished. 

“Eventually. Gianna didn’t.” 

John could believe that. Charming as Gianna could be, she was tough as nails. It was why he liked her. Santino made phone calls, and John tuned him out, staring dazedly out of the window as Ares wove them through traffic. At the airport, they drove right out onto the tarmac, fetching up close to a sleek blue and red Gulfstream jet, the steps already in place. Santino emerged from the car with Daisy held close, still growling at someone over the phone, and John watched, bemused, before getting his bag from the boot and following. 

“She’s my dog, you know,” John said, once they were strapped down on plush seats, John across the aisle from Santino, Ares near the door, the other bodyguards settling in. 

“Why yes,” Santino said, already beginning to dial someone else. Daisy was asleep, her head pillowed on the arm rest. 

John gave up. He ordered bourbon from the flight attendant and spent the flight dozing. The aircraft shuddered through turbulence, which briefly woke Daisy, the puppy making an urgent sound that had John rushing her to the lavish bathroom. He yawned as she took her time deciding whether the shower stall was safe, then cleaned up the mess and was washing his hands in the sink when Santino peeked in.

“Everything all right with her?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Ah, good.” Santino smiled as Daisy started toddling towards him, wagging her tail, but John hastily scooped her up. He started to walk out of the bathroom, then hesitated when Santino didn’t move. Santino met his stare, though he had to look up to do it. “I wonder if my father will listen to you like this.” 

John managed a laugh, though it was a grating sound. “Probably not.” 

“You act like a dead man. Not a care left in the world.” 

“Is it that obvious?”

“You _do_ still have _a_ care in the world,” Santino corrected, reaching over to tickle Daisy behind her ears. John flinched back, and Daisy let out a startled yelp. John glared at Santino, who inclined his head, undeterred. “There. That’s a better look.” He stepped closer, and John didn’t realize that he’d backed up against the sink until Santino was close, then far too close, with only a finger of air between them. He scratched Daisy under her chin and grinned up at John, a secretive curl to his mouth, one that John wasn’t sure how to parse. 

“I think you still like danger, Mister Wick,” Santino said, and it felt obscene, somehow, listening to his own name rolled in that rich accent. 

“I told you. I’m retired.” 

“A shame,” Santino said, still grinning. “A waste of talent.” He inclined his head again, and stepped away, one hand tucked into a pocket, ambling back to his seat. Alone, John breathed out shakily, and tucked Daisy up against his shoulder. One last job.

It was _always_ one “last” job.

Da Capo

The Old Man was dying. Massimo D’Antonio had not been a particularly hale man when John had last seen him, eight years and another life ago, but he’d gone from leaning on a walking stick to being sunken in a heavily padded wheelchair, his bearlike frame withered into a pale approximation. He stared up at John with eyes furious from enforced indignity, pinned to machines with plastic veins. The room smelled of disinfectant and shit.

“So,” Massimo said, his voice a hoarse rasp. “My son sends another emissary.” He spoke in Italian, every word choked out, the final gasps of the terminally ill. 

“He does.” John replied in kind. 

“Your Italian is as terrible as it was before.” 

“I know.” John had an ear for languages—a good trait for people in his old line of work—but he was never particularly a good student of proper pronunciation. Tarasov had once despaired of his Russian. 

“It is interesting that he sends the Devil to me,” Massimo said, and his eyes flicked briefly around the room that was also now a prison. Massimo’s bedroom would become his final resting place, a lavish suite in ebony and silk, ringed by bodyguards and nurses. Unlike Winston’s office, the books in the shelves had once been well-loved, their spines heavily creased, the pages weathered. There was a portrait of a queenly woman over the disused fireplace, one with something of Gianna in her chin and eyes. 

“I’m retired.” 

“So I have heard. And yet here you are.” 

John wished he hadn’t left his dog with Santino in the villa’s garden grounds, but dogs were not allowed into what was now effectively a very private hospital for one. “I gave him a marker.” 

“I know what you did.” Massimo narrowed his eyes. “You should have asked me for that favour.” 

“I asked Gianna.” 

“Gianna, feh. Gianna has her limits.” 

“I didn’t think you’d be inclined to see me again, let alone do me a favour,” John explained, “given what happened the last time.” 

“Heh.” Massimo tried to laugh, ended up coughing instead, and waved away a nurse who skipped over with a jerk of his wrist. “I’m not that sentimental. In our business, mercy is an insult. You should have killed me. Then I wouldn’t be here now, drowning in my own spit.”

“It wasn’t necessary.” 

“Are you here to kill me now?”

“Still not necessary,” John said, indifferent to how the bodyguards in the room stiffened. “Your son wants your seat at the High Table.”

“I know what that damned boy wants. Tch. If this was twenty, thirty years ago, he would have that seat. My only boy. The Camorra was very backwards then.” 

John nodded. “Gianna’s good. I like her.” 

“The two of you are friends. I know that too.” Massimo coughed again, this time more heavily, though he turned his head and glared when a nurse stepped away from the wall. “She already manages the family affairs in Italy, in Europe. Santino has America, and he’s only managed to carve out a niche in New York. Gianna has… ideas. Santino is the past. From before, when the Camorra believed only in contests of strength.” 

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.” Idly, John wondered how difficult it would be to get rid of Gianna. He’d have to do it during the inaugural party, probably. He would regret it.

“You know my children. Who do _you_ think should ascend to my seat?” 

“Depends,” John said, scratching his jaw. “If Santino didn’t have my marker, Gianna would’ve been the better choice.”

“But he does have your marker. Bet on _a_ future or on the promise of total destruction, hn?” When John didn’t answer, Massimo closed his eyes. “Oh yes. I know this as well. That vicious boy of mine won’t stop with just his sister’s head. He’ll try to take yours as well, because he’s still a spoiled child in many stupid ways.” 

“Choose,” John said. “I’m tired. Long flight.” 

“ _You’re_ tired?” Massimo bared teeth long discoloured by cigarettes. “Heh. Go, go. While I still live, that damned seat is mine. Get out of my sight.” 

John found Santino in the garden, trying to teach Daisy to fetch a stick. “She doesn’t get fetch games,” John said, ambling over. “She’d do it a couple of times, then she’d just think you threw the stick away because you really don’t want it.” 

“A positive sign of intelligence.” Santino straightened up. “So? What did the old man say?” 

John looked around. Ares was under a tree, her arms folded, and the others were further away at the driveway, engaged in a wary mutual stare-off with Massimo’s people. Change was coming, and it made heavily armed people antsy. “What do you think?” 

“He’s stubborn and dying.”

“He hasn’t made a choice yet.” 

“Is that what he told you?”

“Not really. He asked me for my opinion.” 

Santino raised his eyebrows. “And you spoke very highly of me, I presume.” He smiled, sardonic. 

“Public relations isn’t my strong point.”

Santino chuckled. “Well. Do what you can. You’re welcome to stay with me if you like. Or—” 

“I’ll be at the Continental.”

“That could be expensive. The old man might take a long time to die.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“You’re stubborn.” Santino shook his head. “It is… eh…”

“Annoying?”

“Interesting, I think.” Santino was grinning again, secretive. “I didn’t help you before because I wanted a favour from the _great_ John Wick. I did it because I wanted a marker from an interesting man. But for my father’s imminent mistake, I probably would have kept it, never to be exchanged.” 

“Best that way.” John said, never having been one for threading minefields and trading barbs. 

“Let me give you a lift to Rome.” Before John could say that he’d rather walk, Santino had a hand pressed against the crook of his elbow, again, impossibly warm. “I insist.”

Cavatina

“Hello, John.” Gianna slid into the chair at his table, blonde today, elegant in a black dress, gold chains looped around her slender neck. John glanced up and to his left, and Cassian, ever-present, offered him a slight nod before angling over to stand behind his ward, austere in a charcoal suit.

“Gianna.” John had been picking through his dinner. It was an excellent steak, almost as good as the New York Continental’s, but John had little appetite of late. He polished off the potatoes and put the plate on the floor, where Daisy happily wolfed down the leftovers. 

Gianna pursed her lips in disapproval. “That’s not healthy for her, by the way.” 

“Already had the lecture from your brother.” Santino had dropped by only yesterday, and had said nearly the same thing. 

“Yes, my darling brother.” Gianna glanced up at Cassian. “Could you get me a martini, dear? Then wait for me at the bar.” Cassian nodded and ambled off. 

“Surely you don’t need a body man in the Continental.” Just like in New York, Julius enforced the no-business rule in his Continental with an absolute fist.

“Oh, Cassian gets lonely when I leave him at home. I’m glad to see you.”

“People generally aren’t.” 

Cassian returned with a martini, which Gianna sipped, watching John keenly as Cassian retreated. Her lipstick left a red imprint on the glass. “I’m always glad to see my friends. Sorry to hear about your wife.”

Gianna was sincere, at least. “Yeah.” 

“What was her name?”

“Helen.” 

“Didn’t you retire?”

“Tried.”

“Interceding with my father on my brother’s behalf isn’t the act of a retired man.” Gianna tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Ah, I see. You must have asked my brother for _that_ favour.” 

“I asked you first.”

Gianna gave him a long, pitying look. “I didn’t have the resources in place.” 

“I know. It’s okay. Your brother did.” 

“But more importantly,” Gianna continued, as though John hadn’t spoken, “I thought you were just going to your death. I was hoping you’d give up. I told you before that it was futile. There’s no such thing as retiring.”

“I see that now.” John didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. “Guess you can see why I talked to the old man.”

“Yes. Unfortunate, but understandable.”

“You could take yourself out of the running,” John suggested, a little hopefully. 

“And why should I do that?”

John lifted a shoulder into a shrug. “If the old man picks you, I think your brother isn’t gonna take that well.”

“And?”

“And I fucking hate killing my friends.” John lifted his glass of bourbon in a toast, one that Gianna met with a clink of her glass and a thin smile. “Cheers.” 

“So do I,” Gianna said flatly. She took a sip, and left her martini on the table. “I wish I’d known then that you’d go as far as to offer Santino a marker.” 

“Would things have changed?”

Gianna laughed. “I’d have tried to have you shot first. Nothing personal, of course. I’ve always known that a day like this would come.” She patted his knuckles. “See you around, John.”

“Hope not.” He hated killing friends.

Etude

“Don’t be stubborn,” Santino said, cross-legged on the carpet of John’s suite, a velvet bag of dog treats in hand, trying to teach Daisy to shake.

“Who’re you talking to?” John pointedly didn’t look up from his paper. He probably shouldn’t even have let Santino into the room, and wouldn’t have, if Daisy hadn’t started barking excitedly and scratching at the door. 

“The both of you, actually.” Santino sighed as Daisy nosed his hand, closed over a treat, licking his fingers hopefully. “No. Still wrong. Use your paw.” 

“She’s too polite for that.” Daisy squeaked as though she agreed, and tried licking Santino’s knuckles. He gave in, opening his palm, and she gobbled up the dog biscuit, probably without even bothering to chew. “And… you gave in. Again.” Cute dogs were Santino’s secret weakness. Who knew.

“We will try again,” Santino told Daisy sternly, picking out another biscuit, holding it in a closed fist. She rested her chin on his knuckles with a soulful stare. “Ahh, you little cheat.”

“Do I want to know how many dogs you have?” 

“None.” 

“Really?” 

“I did not like dogs before.” Santino said. “A dog is a stupid creature. Blind loyalty, blind trust.”

“Unconditional love.” 

Santino sniffed. “Love that is unconditional? No such thing. Even a dog’s love is conditional. Hurt it enough and you’ll see. Besides, unconditional love is pointless. If you cannot lose something, then it has no value.” 

“For someone who doesn’t like dogs, you could’ve fooled me.” 

This time, Santino coughed, as though embarrassed, and fed Daisy the treat. “She’d be happier at my villa. The grounds are large.”

“She’ll be safer here,” John said pointedly.

“I’m shocked that you think that I might hurt her. Who would hurt a creature as lovely as this? It would be a sin.” Santino tickled Daisy’s ears again, and the puppy rolled onto her back, wiggling happily. Eventually, she fell asleep, and Santino got to his feet, dusting his hands off his tailored trousers. John ignored him, thinking that Santino was going to leave, and he tensed, instead, as Santino sauntered over, leaning over John’s chair, a palm braced on the arm rest. “Don’t be stubborn.” 

“The marker doesn’t mean that I have to obey you,” John said, though Santino was right. Staying in the Continental long-term was going to seriously eat into his finances. 

“I wasn’t going to order you to come with me.” Santino was leaning closer, until he was a finger of air away again, his eyes intense with avarice. “I was going to persuade you.” 

John frowned—surely Santino didn’t mean—then he was stiffening up as Santino kissed him, hard on the mouth, as obnoxious a kisser as he was with everything else and somehow John was kissing him back, opening his mouth, growling. The pendulum had swung back, bringing madness. Santino stumbled as John hauled him closer, but somehow managed to fit onto his lap, squirming until they were flush, and it worked, somehow, especially with the hand’s length of height advantage that John had over Santino. They were both hard. John hissed when Santino ground against him, curling his fingers over that pert ass, scrunching up tailored fabric as he kneaded. Santino grinned at him, a gambler’s grin, reckless and distorted on his too-pretty face. 

“You were handsome when you were younger, I think.” John jerked his chin away as Santino tried to cup his cheek. “Not any longer.” 

“Life gets to you sooner or later.” John pinched Santino’s ass. “You don’t seem to mind.” 

“I like this more.” Santino said, and when he kissed, he bit, just hard enough for blood, and licked the mark he’d mauled on John’s lower lip. “Blood, death, time. It’s made you perfect. John Wick the bogeyman, the reaper.” 

“Perfect isn’t the word I’d use,” John said, and found he was still capable of sheer surprise after all, when Santino smirked at him and slipped off the chair, onto his knees. He sucked John’s cock with a complete lack of sentiment, fingers digging into John’s thighs, frowning slightly when John dared to get a hand around the back of Santino’s neck. 

Gods, it’d been too long. 

Santino was out of practice and bloodyminded about it but somehow it didn’t matter, the occasional accidental scrape of teeth, the sloppy, inconsistent suction. John was biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to swallow his groans. Blood on his mouth, over his tongue. He scraped fingers up through Santino’s ridiculously gelled hair, and moaned as teeth pressed lightly over flesh in warning. Santino made a surprised, muffled sound, then he was finally sucking harder, bobbing his head, flushed to his perfect fucking collar, and this wasn’t a service he was performing _for_ John, John understood now—this was something that he was _taking_. Now, for now, John was Santino’s, to command as he saw fit, to use as he liked, and John had missed this, deep down. Belonging _to_ someone. Anyone. 

Yeah. Dogs were stupid creatures. 

Santino pulled off when John started to come, catching the excess in a handkerchief, wiping his mouth. He was indifferent to his own arousal, looking up at John instead, tossing the soiled fabric aside. “So,” Santino said, in a rusty voice, so fucking smug, and smirked when John nodded tiredly. 

“Fine. I’ll get packed.” 

Deft fingers tucked him away, then Santino was back on his lap, and this time, John didn’t try to jerk away when Santino trailed fingers over his cheek. “I think it will be a pity to let you go after the marker is discharged,” he said, the words compressed against John’s ear and the angle of his jaw. 

“Persuade me,” John said, and kissed him, blood on his mouth, over his tongue. He had promised more before with less.

Morendo

John waited by the bonnet of the car, watching the funeral from a safe distance. Gianna was heavily veiled, Santino suitably solemn. The priest droned on in Italian, something John couldn’t catch, thankfully, and he ended up trying again, futilely, to teach Daisy to fetch. At one point, his phone buzzed him, and he checked the message briefly before nodding to himself and tossing the stick again. Santino returned just as Daisy threw herself on the turf, exhausted.

“Congratulations,” John told him. “Word got around.” 

Ares smiled sharply at John, and got into the driver’s seat. Santino lingered, a hand tucked into a pocket. “I’ll contact Accounts about your marker.” 

John shrugged. “Waste of a marker. Old man probably was angling to name you his successor anyway.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not. He needed a push.”

“From me?” John shook his head. “Don’t think so. I don’t think the one time I spoke to him in his villa mattered that much.”

“ _Appearance_ matters,” Santino said, sidling closer, and tugging John down towards him by the chin. “Especially within the Camorra.” They were within sight over the funeral guests still, those who remained, and now John understood. He’d been useful after all. Someone who could apparently tame the bogeyman would be a fitting heir to a seat at the High Table. John nodded, and Santino tilted his head. “You don’t mind.”

“You mean, do I mind you discharging my marker without me having to pay a blood price?” John asked dryly. “I wonder.”

“A blood price isn’t always paid in terms of the dying,” Santino shot back, and kissed him hard on the mouth for good measure. “Home.” Santino pulled away, beckoning. It wasn’t a request, not that John had been expecting one, and he bowed his head, even as Daisy bounded over from the grass.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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